He felt like a man with two left hands who didn’t know how to use either of them.

While she’d slept last night, cradled in his arms, he’d lain awake, pondering all the complexities of life—especially those he’d never wondered about before. Like holding someone as they slept. He’d never done that, and instinctively he knew the marvel of doing so wasn’t something he’d forget anytime soon. Perhaps ever.

There were things he did know, and questions he did want to ask her, which were tumbling forward now, faster than dried up tumbleweeds rolling across the flat plains he’d seen down in Kansas. He tried, but was unable to catch one as it rolled across his tongue.

“Who’s the father of your baby?”

AUTHOR NOTE

The American cowboy came about after the Civil War, when a shortage of beef in the northern states gave some enterprising southerners, mainly Texans, the idea of driving their cattle north. Their plan was to drive them to the closest railroads—Kansas. These cattle drives flourished for about twenty years—1866–1885—and a cowboy was considered to be anyone with ‘guts and a gun’.

The railroad soon spread across the nation, diminishing the cattle drives, but the cowboy lived on, performing a multitude of duties in winning the West. There is something about those men—rustic, rugged, risky, yet charismatic and downright sexy—that captures women’s hearts. They’re men we know will be there when needed, whether it’s three in the morning or three in the afternoon.

Though he’s a Pinkerton Man, Carter Buchanan is a cowboy at heart, and he’s there for Molly Thorson whether she wants him to be or not—at three in the morning and three in the afternoon.

I sincerely hope you enjoy meeting and getting to know both Carter and Molly as much as I did.

About the Author

LAURI ROBINSON’S chosen genre to write is Western historical romance. When asked why, she says, ‘Because I know I wasn’t the only girl who wanted to grow up and marry Little Joe Cartwright.’

With a degree in early childhood education, Lauri has spent decades working in the non-profit field and claims once-upon-a-time and happily-ever-after romance novels have always been a form of stress relief. When her husband suggested she write one she took the challenge, and has loved every minute of the journey.

Lauri lives in rural Minnesota, where she and her husband spend every spare moment with their three grown sons and four grandchildren. She works part-time, volunteers for several organisations, and is a diehard Elvis and NASCAR fan. Her favourite getaway location is the woods of northern Minnesota, on the land homesteaded by her great-grandfather.

Previous titles from Lauri Robinson:

HIS CHRISTMAS WISH

(part of All a Cowboy Wants for Christmas)

UNCLAIMED BRIDE

INHERITING A BRIDE

Also available in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone! eBooks:

WEDDING NIGHT WITH THE RANGER

HER MIDNIGHT COWBOY

NIGHTS WITH THE OUTLAW

DISOBEYING THE MARSHAL

TESTING THE LAWMAN’S HONOUR

THE SHERIFF’S LAST GAMBLE

WHAT A COWBOY WANTS

HIS WILD WEST WIFE

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Cowboy Who Caught Her Eye

Lauri Robinson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To my sister-in-law, Berta. Gotta love those cowboys! Love you, Lauri.

Chapter One

Dakota Territory

August 1884

Carter Buchanan kept the hat pulled low on his face and his feet propped on the seat across from him, waiting for the others to gather their bags and bundles and head for the exit. He was as ready to get off the rumbling box on wheels as the rest of them, but he never let anything show—feelings or thoughts. That was how he liked it.

He did let out a pent-up sigh and cast a little glance around, checking how many other passengers still had to depart the Chicago and Northwestern railcar. Several, including the woman with a dozen kids. True, it wasn’t a full dozen, but she had a horde. With red hair and freckles. Irish. He was, too. Black Irish. That’s what they called him all those years ago when he roamed the streets of New York. His hair was still black, his eyes still blue, but no one had called him that for years now. Not that it mattered. It hadn’t then and it didn’t now.

Once the commotion slowed, he pushed back his hat, planted his boots on the floor and gathered up the bedroll he’d tucked his well-worn dictionary in earlier. Sampson would be glad to see him. The gelding hadn’t been impressed with his accommodations. Neither had Carter. What the railroad advertised and what he’d just experienced were as far apart as the east and west coasts. He knew. He’d been to both. Coasts, that is.

Right now he was smack-dab in the middle of these good old United States of America. The land his father never got to see. Mother, either. The trip over from the old country saw to that. Carter had seen this country though. Lots of it. And now he was in Huron, South Dakota. Named after the Indians that once roamed the prairies, founded to become the headquarters of the western division of the C&NW railroad, and where his latest case took him.

The only place bills had surfaced from last year’s train robbery was right here in Huron. Ironic, that’s what he’d called it. Told Mr. Pinkerton that himself. The man agreed and told him good luck.

Good luck. That, too, was ironic. What other kind of luck would you wish upon someone?

The outside air wasn’t a whole lot better than inside the train car. Hot and heavy. He drew in a good portion anyway and set off in the direction of his horse.

Full of muck and mud, a recent rain no doubt, the ground surrounding the depot platform stunk from droppings left about, which he stepped around as if sashaying a woman across a dance floor. Not that he did that too often. Unlike dancing, sidestepping piles he was used to.

Sampson was nickering before the gate to the stock car dropped and upon bounding down, the palomino made his own offering to the stench and muck.

“That happens every time,” a young kid said, handing over Sampson’s reins.

“I’m sure it does,” Carter answered, giving the curly-haired boy a coin for his troubles.

“If you’re hungry, there’s a restaurant in the hotel, or the mercantile sells breads and such, if’n you want to make your own.” The boy waved a hand toward the buildings lining both sides of the muddy street. “It’s a bit farther away, but I’d recommend the mercantile. Miss Thorson makes the best cinnamon rolls you’ll ever eat.”

“Obliged,” Carter said, tying his pack behind the saddle. He led Sampson away then, but just far enough to examine the surroundings. A cinnamon roll did sound good. He’d always had a soft spot for pastries, and the mercantile was one of the places he’d visit, but first he’d get a feel for the town.

This assignment didn’t require him to be undercover—he was using his own name—but that didn’t mean he wanted anyone to know who he was, what he was doing. One never knew how folks would relate to a Pinkerton man. Some were impressed, others angered, and there were always a few who really didn’t care. He’d be one of the latter, if he was in anyone else’s boots. Plenty of Pinkerton operatives, even some he knew well, were little more than thugs with a cross to bear.

Carter took to walking again, down the muddy street, giving Sampson a chance to get his bearings while surveying the buildings on both sides. Connected, one to the next, they went on for half a dozen blocks. Several were stand-alones, had little walkways—muddy ones—between them, and most had two stories, a couple with balconies. Some were made of bricks, even had the dates they were built—last year—displayed in the top row below the crowning eaves. Others were made of wood, but painted. All in all, it appeared to be a well-laid-out and prosperous town.

The line outside the hotel suggested most of the train passengers had decided on a meal at the restaurant. It was close to noon. He’d get himself one of those cinnamon rolls later, but just now he was moseying. He was good at moseying, and liked it, too. It was amazing what a man learned just by keeping his ears open, walking about, and Carter set a slow pace, doing precisely that.

It was close to an hour later when he found himself at the edge of town. The sun was high, drying out the ground, and Carter was satisfied he knew enough particulars to dig in to his assignment.

Thorson’s Mercantile, a big wooden structure, and a stand-alone one, was at the end of the main street, a considerable distance from all the other buildings, making him wonder if it was one of the first ones built several years ago, before the railroad bought up the land on the west bank of the James River for their western division headquarters. The store looked as if it had been a house at one time that someone had added a big front room to, complete with plate-glass windows and a sprawling porch to display odds and ends for sale. There was a barn and a couple other buildings nestled around it, as though the original owners were building a ranch, but changed their minds.

That’s what he’d decided was in his future. A ranch. He’d have it someday. Soon. Just had to decide where. That’s one of the things he’d come to like about being a Pinkerton man. Assignments rarely sent him to the same place twice, giving him a chance to explore where he wanted to finally hang his hat. It paid well, too, being a Pinkerton operative. He had no complaints on that either.

Carter swung into the saddle, ready to ride, give Sampson a chance to stretch his legs. There’d be plenty of time to get that cinnamon roll, see Ted Wilcox and then settle in the hotel before nightfall.

The thunder of hooves had Molly Thorson lifting her head and resting a hand on the end of the hoe handle. Cowboys were nothing new, they rode through town, even visited the mercantile on a regular basis, but the horse this one sat upon deserved a second look. Big and glistening like a gold coin in the sun, the palomino was magnificent. The never-faraway longing in her heart sprang to life; however, this time it was quickly overshadowed by a unique fluttering in her stomach.

Molly pressed her free hand to her abdomen, held it there. Waited.

The movement didn’t repeat itself and she went back to hoeing. It was too soon. At least she thought it was, and there was no one she could ask. No one to tell her what to expect, what to do. It was only here, when she took an hour after lunch to hoe the garden, that she could even let herself think about the baby.

That wasn’t true. She thought about the little life inside her all the time, but it was only here, when she was alone, that she could pretend things were different. That being pregnant was something to behold and cherish.

Time was ticking by and soon everyone would know about the baby. They’d be telling her what to do, too, and what they thought. Especially of her. A harlot. An unwed mother. A woman like that.

Hoe in hand, Molly attacked the weeds, releasing frustration all the way to the end of the row.

It didn’t help. Only made her sweat and brood over things more intently. Loathe herself.

Disgusted inside and out, she blew out a breath. If she lived forever, she’d never take another sip of Afton Smith’s cherry wine. She’d never been so sick in her life and now she knew life could always get worse than what a person thought it was. If only she could have that day back. Things would be different, that was for sure. But she couldn’t have that day back, and she had to find her backbone instead of her wishbone, figure out a way to live with what she’d done.

Her anger renewed itself, or maybe it had never left, she’d just forgotten about it for a moment. With vigor, she took after the weeds in the next row until a little beet got caught on the end of the hoe. Pausing, Molly took a moment to stretch the discomfort from her back before leaning down to stick the tiny bulb, stringy root down, back in the earth.

As much as she loathed herself for what had happened, she loved the little life growing inside her. If it was just her, she’d face down the entire town, not really caring what they thought, but more often than not she witnessed the residents’ reactions to those they considered were beneath them, saw and felt it when people looked upon Ivy. They’d do that to her baby, too.

“Molly!”

Lifting her gaze, she waited for Karleen to shout the rest of what she had to say from the side of the store.

“Mr. Ratcliff needs your assistance!”

Molly waved a hand, signaling she’d heard, and then dug out the last two weeds trying to grow at the end of the row. She also carried the hoe to the barn before making her way toward the store. It was their livelihood, the mercantile her father had started back when there was nothing out here except a few farmers and some Indians—Ivy’s tribe. Father’s plan had been to start a horse ranch when they’d left Ohio all those years ago. It hadn’t happened—a ranch—being a merchant had been more lucrative. The store was still profitable—barely—since the railroad opened a dry-goods store that was always well stocked. Their shipments were never delayed.

The weight on her shoulders was too heavy to shake off. Of course it was. There weren’t just the worries of the store weighing her down. There was her sister, and her ward, little Ivy—a treasure for sure—the baby growing in her body, and a slew of other things she couldn’t pull up right now. There was work to be done. Her hour of solitude was over.

As she walked along the pathway from the barn to the store, Molly couldn’t help but glance down the road, in the direction the palomino had galloped. The days of saddling a horse and riding for hours with no real purpose other than pleasure were gone. Long gone. But they still called to her. Stronger than ever.

She increased the speed of her steps.

As old as some of the trees on her property, Mr. Ratcliff met her on the store’s wide porch, rubbing his bushy mustache. Without a word of greeting and as pleasant as a hornet, he informed her, “I got an issue with those nails you sold me.”

His lack of pleasantries didn’t disturb her, she wasn’t overly agreeable either. Hadn’t been for some time. “Oh, what’s wrong with them?”

“They’re rusty.”

If rusty nails were her only problem, the world would be a glorious place. Molly pressed her tongue against the back of her teeth, telling herself to stay calm. They needed every sale to make ends meet. “Did you leave them in the rain?” she asked, keeping her voice even.

Mr. Ratcliff hitched one thumb under a suspender strap while stomping his walking stick against the porch boards with his other hand. “I just bought them last week.”

Staying calm didn’t come easy, and deep breaths weren’t cutting it any longer. “I know when you bought them. I asked if you left them outdoors, in the rain.”

Little more than five feet tall, Mr. Ratcliff lifted his chin, covered with several shades of stiff gray whiskers, as if that made him taller than her. It didn’t. So he stretched his neck. “Your papa would never have sold rusty nails.”

“I didn’t sell you rusty nails, Mr. Ratcliff. I’m positive they were just fine when you purchased them. However, once left outdoors, in the rain, nails will rust. Rather quickly.”

“They’re rusty, all right. Come take a look.” He turned around, which took several steps considering he had to get both feet moving and his cane all at the same time.

Molly had no choice but to wait, and then followed behind his shuffling feet, all the way across the porch and into the store. Karleen was making herself look busy by rearranging the bolts of material on the table Mr. Ratcliff slowly made his way past and Ivy was dusting the set of shelves holding shoes—of which no one had bought a pair in over a year. Molly managed a tight grin for the child as she continued to follow the disgruntled customer—growing that way herself with each footfall—all the way to the far wall where on the counter sat a small rusted and dented can.

Once there, nerves thoroughly frayed, Molly skirted around to the backside of the high counter her father had built by hand, and plucked a wet and rusty nail from the pile in the bottom of the can.

“See?” Mr. Ratcliff said as if it was utterly unbelievable.

“I see the water in the bottom of the can,” she pointed out.

“Now, listen here, missy. I know’d your pappy when he first moved to this here county. You weren’t no taller than a weed back then. Your sister still creeping on all fours. I helped put up that barn out back and even worked on this here storefront when the time came. Didn’t use no rusty nails either. No sirree. When Niles Thorson sold a man nails, they were good ones.” Along with several thumps of his stick, he loudly declared, “I want new nails. Ones that aren’t rusty.”

Several things were vying for the tip of Molly’s tongue. She knew exactly when her family had moved here and was more than ready to tell Mr. Ratcliff exactly what she thought of his demand; however, someone else spoke first.

“What are you building with those nails?”

In no mood to be interrupted, Molly turned her glare toward the door. Spurs jingled as a tall man made a direct path toward the counter, but it was the gun belt hanging low on his hips that kept her silent. A Peacemaker, which should make her nervous since they weren’t good for much except killing a man, but the gun didn’t make her uncomfortable. It had her adding up receipts. So did the Stetson on his head. Both the pistol and the hat were things she’d like to stock, but couldn’t. They were too expensive to sit on the shelves, therefore could only be sold by special order. Men buying Peacemakers and Stetsons didn’t hang around town waiting for their order to come in. The railroad’s dry-goods store kept them in stock, and made a hefty profit on each one they sold.

Mr. Ratcliff had shuffled around to look at the stranger, too, and the old man asked, “What you want to know that for?”

“Just curious.”

The newcomer’s voice was low and slow, subtle, and the gaze of his cobalt-blue eyes was steady, unwavering. Molly kept hers just as solid, even when their gazes snagged. He nodded toward her and then the can. She dropped the nail amongst the others and pushed the container toward the stranger as he arrived at the counter. Little intimidated her, and though she couldn’t quite say this man unsettled her, he had a commanding way about him few probably ignored.

After thoughtful surveillance of the can and nails, the man asked, “You were seasoning these, were you?”

“Uh?” Mr. Ratcliff asked, easing his way over to peer into the can.

“Seasoning the nails.” The stranger looked at her again. “May I?”

Molly had no idea what he was asking, but nodded nonetheless. Strangers weren’t uncommon, not with three trains rolling through town most days, and when she saw the same man twice, she remembered. This was the cowboy who had ridden out of town on the palomino. A quick glance through the store, out the front window, proved it. The horse was tethered to the hitching post.

The cowboy pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket, and started lifting the nails out of the can, drying them off one by one. “You wouldn’t have a container of axle grease, would you?”

His question was directed toward Molly. Not completely convinced she should, but curious, she walked the length of the counter to where the hardware items were located and carried back a good-size tin of grease.

The stranger dipped a corner of his kerchief in the grease and started rubbing it over each nail. Turning those dark blue eyes toward Mr. Ratcliff, the cowboy said, “Smart man, Mr….”

Bobbing his head, the old man answered, “Ratcliff. Owen Ratcliff.”

“Smart man, Mr. Ratcliff,” the cowboy repeated. “Seasoning your nails like this. Now when you use them, they won’t be as susceptible to rust.”

Owen Ratcliff went from grinning to frowning in a flash. “Uh?”

Laying the last nail on the counter, the cowboy asked her, “Would you have a different container for Mr. Ratcliff’s nails? Even a piece of paper to wrap them in would be fine.”

Once again Molly followed his request, retrieving paper and a length of string. She was still curious, but also a touch intrigued, as was her sister, who’d inched closer. No one pleased Mr. Ratcliff. Leastwise she never had. Not even when she tried. Yet this cowboy, with his slow, even voice and even slower movements, had placated the man through and through.

The nails piled on top of the paper looked as good as the ones in the pail on the other side of the store. She’d never heard of seasoning nails, and suspected it was a ruse, but chose not to say anything. A sale was a sale and every return went against her bottom line.

With precise, dedicated movements, the cowboy wrapped the paper around the nails and secured it with the string. “There you are, Mr. Ratcliff. These nails will now be the strongest ones you’ve ever set a hammer to.”

Mr. Ratcliff took the package, and Molly had to bite her lips together. A smile was trying to form—that hadn’t happened for months, but the dumbfounded expression on Owen Ratcliff’s face was something no one in town had ever seen. She’d swear to that.

Never speechless before now, the old man barely muttered a humph as he started his slow shuffle toward the door. Molly was still staring, half expecting Ratcliff to spin about and start spouting off before he reached the porch, when a quiet giggle drew her attention.

“I wouldn’t have believed that if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” Karleen whispered, walking around the counter to edge in beside Molly.

Her sister, usually too engrossed in a book to notice anything going on around her, held one hand over the top of the counter. “Hello, I’m Karleen Thorson, and this is my sister Molly.”

“Carter Buchanan,” the cowboy replied evenly, shaking Karleen’s hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Buchanan,” Karleen continued with a bright smile. “I do believe you may have just performed a miracle. No one’s ever silenced Mr. Ratcliff.”

The cowboy, or Carter Buchanan—Molly had never heard of any Buchanans in the area, and couldn’t help but wonder where he was from and what he was doing here—turned and eyed the doorway Mr. Ratcliff was shuffling through.

“He’s probably just lonely. Doesn’t have anything to fill his time, so he thinks up things to complain about.” Turning back, he touched the brim of his hat. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Miss Thorson.” He then extended his hand toward her. “And you.”

A shudder traveled down Molly’s spine. “Maureen. Maureen Thorson,” she answered, without shaking his hand. She would never, ever so much as touch another man.

“Wasn’t that amazing, Molly?” Karleen asked. “I’ve never seen Mr. Ratcliff speechless. I really should go tell Mr. Franks. He’d want to write an article about it in the weekly post.”

“No,” Molly said, “you won’t go tell Mr. Franks, you will finish unpacking the freight.” Too young to know better, Karleen was too friendly with strangers, no matter how many times Molly cautioned her on it, and that had the past five months of irritation coming to a head. Searching for something, anything, she could control, Molly pointed toward the doorway that led to the living quarters. “Ivy, it’s time for you to go finish your lessons.”

Instant regret shimmied up her spine. Two big brown eyes and a quivering lip told her just how snippy she sounded. Softening her tone, for Ivy didn’t deserve any wrath, Molly added, “I’ll come see how you’re doing in a few minutes.”

“Come on, Ivy,” Karleen said, walking around the counter while flashing Molly a quick shot of disdain. “Let’s go see how far you’ve gotten in your reader.” With another sharp glance, she added, “I’ll finish unpacking the crates afterward.”

Molly wanted to scream, mainly because she knew her sister was right. The freight could wait, but Karleen didn’t have the responsibilities she did, or the worries. And shouldn’t. Karleen was only sixteen—she, on the other hand, was twenty-three. Plenty old enough for responsibilities. And to know better.

Drawing a deep breath, Molly told herself to count to ten. If she voiced her opinion right now she’d tell the stranger, greased or not, those nails weren’t any stronger now than when they’d been sitting in rainwater, but Mr. Ratcliff, still shuffling across the porch, might hear, therefore she counted. She had counted to about five when the cowboy spoke.

“Why aren’t they in school?”

Spinning, she leveled a dull gaze on the man. Still conscious of listeners, she kept her voice low as she pointed out the obvious. “Because Karleen graduated last year, and Ivy is an Indian.”

His face was expressionless, but he might as well have been stomping one foot. A person full of antagonism sees it in another. “So? She’s still a child. Still needs to learn.”

“That’s true,” Molly said, wondering where the sudden urge to mollify him came from. For months she’d fought the town council, who refused to allow Ivy to attend school, but had gotten nowhere. She’d have been at this month’s meeting, too, but fearful someone might notice her growing girth, she’d pretended to have forgotten what night the meeting had been held. “But Indian children are not allowed to attend Huron’s public school.”

“Why?”

She picked up the tin of axle grease and carried it back to the shelf. “I was told it’s because the school is funded through the tax system and Indians don’t pay taxes.”

The cowboy—only cowboys wore guns and spurs—was leaning on the counter, watching her, which had her sucking in her stomach, though it was well covered with a dress two sizes too big and three underskirts, and all the sucking in the world wouldn’t flatten it. His, however, was as flat as the counter. The tan shirt tucked into his black pants didn’t have a single ripple.

The idea she’d noticed so much about him made her skin tighten. “Is there something you needed?”

He cocked a brow. “Actually, yes.”

She thought about waiting it out, but didn’t have the patience. “What?”

“One of those cinnamon rolls.”

With a piece of paper, she picked up a roll from the plate on the corner of the counter and folded the edges around the pastry so he could carry it out the door. Not eat it here. The price was posted and he slid the correct change across the counter. Usually, no matter who it was, she’d thank a customer for their purchase, but not today. Not him.

“Could I speak to the owner?”

Molly walked to a crate sitting at the other end of the counter, started lifting things out of the sawdust. “You are,” she said, experiencing the first bout of pride she’d felt in months.

“You?”

“My sister and I.”

Carter held in his surprise. He hadn’t overheard that while walking around town. Then again, besides the boy at the train depot, no one had mentioned the mercantile and he hadn’t asked, knew he’d be stopping by and would learn all he needed to know. His plan had included getting a job here, at the mercantile, so he could watch the money flowing in and out, but he’d expected a man to own the establishment. Not a snooty woman, younger sister and little Indian girl—who, in his opinion, should be on the other side of town in the brick building with all the other kids. He didn’t have a lot of tolerance for kids, but had even less for people mistreating them.

The woman, Maureen, she’d called herself, though the tiny splattering of freckles covering her cheeks made her look more like the name her sister had called her—Molly—paused while unloading the crate. Gave him another uppity stare.

“Did you have a complaint?” she asked.

He had plenty of complaints, but voicing them wouldn’t help his case, so he pulled up a grin. “Nope. Just wanted to say your reputation precedes you.”

Her glare turned omniscient, and said she didn’t like what she thought he knew. Which meant he had more to learn. Picking up the pastry, he nodded. “Your cinnamon rolls. I heard they’re the best around.”

She didn’t believe that any more than he did. Interesting. He tipped the brim of his hat with one hand. “Ma’am.”

He was out the door, but heard her growl nonetheless. That was one ornery woman, and irritating her had a smile wanting to crack his lips. He didn’t let it. Took a bite of the cinnamon roll instead, and then leaned one elbow on his saddle. The pastry was tasty, might be the best he’d ever had, and he ate it right there, watching the front door of that mercantile, coming up with a new plan.

When the roll was gone, he folded the paper and stuffed it in his saddlebag—never know when it might come in handy—and then he patted Sampson’s neck while untying the reins from the post. “Time to visit Ted Wilcox. We need more information before we set our plan in place, boy. Then I’ll get you some oats.” Keeping his voice low while conversing with the horse—as he often did on cases—he added, “Molly Thorson is hiding a secret as big as you, and my gut says money is involved. Stolen money.”

Chapter Two

Ted Wilcox was at the train depot in his office on the second floor, and upon seeing him, the man nodded toward the steward sitting behind a desk in the outer room Carter had entered moments ago.

“J.T.,” Wilcox said, “go reserve a room at the hotel. There’s a guest on the next train that will be expecting it. Put it in the railroad’s name.”

“Yes, sir,” answered J.T., who was little more than a boy with round glasses and long brown hair, who just might be afraid of his own shadow.

Carter returned the young man’s nod, knowing Wilcox was reserving a room for him but didn’t want anyone to know that. He waited until the assistant was gone before crossing the room to shake the railroad man’s hand.

Average height and stocky, Wilcox displayed an attitude that said he expected to be listened to. “Mr. Buchanan, I presume?”

“Carter,” he answered.

“Ted,” the man offered in return. “Let’s step into my office.”

Carter followed through the thick wooden door. If the railroad had spent as much money on their passenger cars as they had this man’s office, they’d have a lot more happy travelers. Then again, maybe folks out here weren’t used to the plush cars the trains back east had. He hadn’t heard many complaints on his trip, but no one heard much over that brood of redheaded kids.

“The room I sent J.T. to reserve is for you,” Wilcox said as he walked around his big mahogany desk. “I was going to see to it during lunch, but since you hadn’t stopped in, I wondered if you’d been on the train.”

Carter questioned holding his explanation. This was the one thing he didn’t like about being a Pinkerton man. It was expected he should instantly trust his connections when on assignment, but he liked getting to know people first. In this instance, there wasn’t time. He needed to learn as much as possible, fast, to determine how—besides working there—he could watch the coming and going at the mercantile. Therefore, he’d have to give a little to get a little. “I wanted to get a feel for the town first.”

“Good idea,” Wilcox said, gesturing to a chair.

Once Carter sat, the man pulled open a drawer and handed a bill over the top of the desk.

“This is it, the only bill that’s surfaced,” the man said. “The serial numbers match those the mint confirmed were in the shipment stolen last year.”

A five. Crisp and new. Not so much as a corner bent. The numbers did match. Carter had memorized them. “In May?” he asked, verifying that’s when the bill was discovered.

“Yes. J.T. is who got it. He’d bought some things at the mercantile. The poor lad has a crush on the youngest Thorson girl, they went to school together. He showed it to me because he’d never seen a bill so new. I paid him ten dollars for it.”

Carter let a lifted brow express his thoughts.

Wilcox grinned. “The railroad paid him ten dollars for it. I recognized the serial numbers right away.” He took the bill Carter passed back across the desk and replaced it in the drawer. “J.T. thinks I just like new bills, so he’s on the lookout for more.” The man propped his elbows on his desk and laced his fingers together. “Nobody knows about the robbery, and the C&NW wants to keep it that way. Having people believe we lost that kind of money would damage our reputation. That wasn’t a passenger train. Not a single person boarded after it left Chicago, and no one got off until it arrived here. But the loss was noted in Nebraska.”

None of that was new information. Carter had read the inside report, knew how the railroad had covered the loss and tried to solve the inside caper themselves, without any luck, and now the owner wanted it completely investigated and resolved. Carter had also memorized the manifesto of passengers. Railroad men and soldiers.

“The money had been in a locked box in a private car,” Wilcox said. “The box was still there, just empty, and one man couldn’t have carried that amount out without being noticed, not with a hundred pockets. He’d have needed a carrying bag of some sort, and every man on that train was searched.”

None of this was new, and that’s what Carter needed, new information. “How’d the Thorson sisters end up owning the mercantile?”

“You’ve been there?”

He tipped his hat back a bit. “Had a cinnamon roll for lunch.”

“That’s what keeps people coming in their doors. The older sister came up with that idea.”

The way Wilcox leaned back in his chair and folded his arms said he wasn’t impressed. Carter waited, knew the man would say more.

“The Chicago and Northwestern Rail needs to own this town, Mr. Buchanan—Carter. We opened a dry-goods store three years ago, and little more than those cinnamon rolls keep people from buying everything they need from us instead of those sisters.”

“A little competition makes good business.” Normally he wouldn’t have voiced his opinion, but the situation merited it.

“Usually,” the other man answered, “but laying new lines is costly. What the railroad makes here is invested in more rails heading in all directions. Once the tracks are all constructed and C&NW trains are flowing, competition will be welcomed. Until then, it’s up to me, and now you, to see that every dollar spent in Huron flows through the railroad’s coffers.”

That wasn’t new either. Mining towns were the same. The trouble was greed. By the time the tracks were all laid, the railroad would have another reason why they needed to own everything. They always wanted more. And the man was wrong. It wasn’t up to Carter to see people spent their money with the railroad. He was a Pinkerton man. Solving a crime was his job.

“We almost had it,” Wilcox said. “Thorson’s Mercantile. The old man had never wanted a store, he was set on ranching. Raising horses for the army. Story is he found more money was to be made in selling supplies instead. We have the army’s business now, and thought after the man and his wife died the girls would close up shop. Instead they started selling those cinnamon rolls, and have kept a steady business going ever since. ‘Course, we haven’t hit them too hard—town folks like those girls, feel sorry for them, and we need to act accordingly. Keep it all undercover. You know how that is.”

Carter refrained from commenting. He did know how it was, but that wasn’t why he kept quiet. Molly Thorson was. He didn’t want to like anything about her. That snooty attitude of hers had set a frost deep in his bones, but, being an honest man, he had to admit he held a touch of respect for her. She had backbone, and finding a way to keep her doors open—fighting against the railroad—took pure gumption.

She was scared, too. He’d seen it in her eyes when he mentioned her reputation. Stolen money was a reputation killer.

All in all, every instinct Carter had told him he had to revert to his original plan. Get a job at the mercantile.

A knock sounded and Wilcox rose and walked across the room to crack open the door.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wilcox, but the hotel is full up. Seems that woman with a passel of kids that got off the 11:10 is Mick Wagner’s mail-order bride.”

An involuntary shiver raced over Carter’s shoulders.

“Seems it took up the hotel’s last three rooms just to find enough sleeping room for all of them. They’ll be there for a couple days, too. Walt Smith went to tell Mick she’s—or they’ve—arrived, but it’ll take him three days to ride out there and back.”

“Thanks, J.T.,” Wilcox said, closing the door. When he turned, he shrugged.

“How many kids did that woman have?” Carter hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

Wilcox laughed. “I couldn’t count them all, not with the way they were running around like heathens.” He shrugged again. “I didn’t know Mick ordered a bride.”

Carter’s tongue stayed put, but sympathy did cross his mind. Had to. Any man had to feel sorry for another one getting in that position. A wife and a passel of kids. All at once.

“There is a boardinghouse on the east edge of town, but the widow Reins runs it, and she’s as nosy as a coon.”

“That’s all right,” Carter said. “I’ll find a place to bed down for the night.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“By then I’ll have a job at the mercantile. It’ll come with room and board.”

Wilcox let out a cynical laugh. “Thorson’s Mercantile?”

Carter didn’t nod, but did let a tiny grin emit.

“You Pinkerton men must be brave,” Wilcox said. “Or crazy.”

Carter held his opinion on that, too.

By noon the next day he was back at the mercantile, buying another one of those cinnamon rolls. Molly Thorson wasn’t any more pleasant today than she’d been yesterday, but the rolls were just as good. Leastwise it smelled that way, he’d yet to buy and eat one.

“What do you want?” she demanded while glaring up at him from where she stood behind the counter unpacking another crate.

Nothing to do with you, he almost snapped in return. She looked about as friendly as a thunderstorm, and that was before taking in account her ugly gray dress. But a white apron covered up most of the dull color, and he had a job to do. “I’m working my way to Montana,” he said.

Her snarled “So?” was quickly followed with “Oh, good grief.”

He’d never heard that reaction to the territory. Yet Montana had nothing to do with her response.

“It’s broken.” She was growling again and holding up a fancy teacup. “Mrs. Rudolf ordered a set of six cups and saucers,” she said, turning that nasty glare on him again. “My best sale all month, and one is broken. She’s going to be furious. Her garden party is this weekend.”

Her eyes were the palest blue he’d ever seen—not even the sky held that shade—but it was how she was blinking a massive set of eyelashes, as if not wanting to cry, that made his throat get thick. He hadn’t thought of the orphanages from his childhood in years, yet he was right back there. Seeing the faces of all those unwanted little souls. “You still have five,” Carter said.

“What good will that do?”

He didn’t know. It had been all he could think to say. She’d gone from snippy to sappy as fast as an alley man flips a coin. That thought—alley men, thieves really—sent his mind in another direction.

That’s how he’d become a Pinkerton agent. Allan Pinkerton himself had learned that Carter had gained access to the den of several alley thieves, and had hired him as an inside informant. It had been shortly after he’d arrived in Chicago, still just a kid really, and he’d thought joining those thieves might be his only way of making money. He had a lot to thank Allan for. Whether the man knew it or not, he’d nipped Carter’s thieving days in the bud. Changed his whole outlook. If not for Allan, Carter might have been walking on the other side of the law, and it was best he never forgot that.

Carter spun on one heel, but hadn’t made it more than a yard away from the counter when a gasp had him turning around. Those faded blue eyes were locked on the doorway and he twisted slowly, curling one hand around the handle of his gun, not sure what he’d see.

The tension gripping his spine dissolved. It was nothing more than a woman, one who might outweigh Sampson, but a woman no less. He let his gaze wander back to Molly Thorson, where it stuck. She’d gone pale and the hand over her mouth had him wondering if she was going to chuck her lunch all over that crate of dishes. He’d seen that look back at the orphanages, too, after kids had eaten some of the slop forced on them.

Growing whiter than her apron, she whirled around and shot through the open doorway the sister and the little Indian girl had used yesterday. He waited a moment, but when no one reappeared, Carter glanced back toward the open doorway. The big woman was about to barrel over the threshold and instinct told him this was Mrs. Rudolf, the owner of a broken cup.

A Pinkerton man was an actor, could hop from one character to the next just by changing his hat. Carter did that—removed his hat and his gun belt, put them both on a shelf on the backside of the counter and was gingerly setting pink-and-gold cups upon matching saucers when the woman arrived, eyeing him critically over the rim of her round glasses.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Rudolf,” he said with all the pleasantry of a store clerk.

Her frown left indents on her face the size of those he’d seen in the dried-out ground down in Arizona.

“Carter Buchanan.” He gave a nod over one shoulder. “I’m helping out the Thorson sisters.” Drawing the woman’s attention to the cups, he continued, “Got some mighty fancy cups here.”

The deep wrinkles on her forehead softened as she picked up a cup. “Oh, my, they are absolutely beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they are. I’ve never seen anything like them.” He wasn’t lying. There’d never been a reason for him to take much interest in teacups. Wouldn’t be now if one of the Thorson sisters would step through that doorway.

“I was getting worried they wouldn’t arrive in time for my party,” Mrs. Rudolf said, still gazing at the cup as if it was gold instead of just painted that way. “They were supposed to be in last week, you know.”

No, he didn’t know that, but he could imagine how displeased this woman was going to be when she learned one of her treasured cups was broken. Therefore he said, “I know. Miss Thorson is very upset over that, and she’s even more disturbed by how carelessly her order was handled. Tore off for the back room just moments ago.” Though he doubted it, he added, “Probably to pen her correspondence.”

“What correspondence?”

“To the freight company, over the shoddy way they treat merchandise. The way they treated you.” He refrained from specifically naming the railroad, having to balance things as carefully as a beam scale weighing gold dust.

“Me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, remaining in character. “I don’t see the cause to get so riled up, but you know Molly.” The name slipped off his tongue as if he’d been saying it for years. Maybe he had—he’d worked with a lot of people, and remembering every name would be impossible.

Mrs. Rudolf nodded. “Yes, I do.” Leaning closer, she whispered, “She never used to be this way. It’s only been recently.”

Doubt was settling hard again, but he agreed with a nod. “I’m sure it’s things like this. Too many mishaps wear a person down.”

“Things like what?”

“I know someone as reasonable as you would never let anything this silly upset them.” He paused then, as if taken aback for a moment. “You are a reasonable woman, aren’t you, Mrs. Rudolf?”

“Of course I am.”

Her insistence proved she wasn’t, but he’d already figured that out, so he smiled. “I thought so.” Going a step further, which he did only when the situation called for it, Carter gave her a touch of flattery. “Anyone with eyes as tender as yours is very reasonable.”

It worked. Her weathered cheeks turned as pink as the roses painted on her cups.

“I knew one broken cup wouldn’t disrupt your garden party,” he said brightly.

“Broken cup!”

The women around here sure did anger quickly, not so unlike everywhere else in the world. Keeping his tone even, and adding a sorrowful look, he said, “Yes, ma’am. That’s why Molly is so flustered. Over the way the freight company treated you.” He patted the old woman’s hand. “And I’m glad you don’t blame her. I’m sure your guests will understand. Besides, it’s only one. You won’t have more than four guests, will you?” A woman with this disposition couldn’t have many friends. Then again, birds of a feather flock together.

“Well, no, there’ll just be the four of us. Wives of the town council.” Her tone implied the importance of that. Or at least she thought it was significant.

“Good.” He’d been wrapping the cups and saucers in paper from the shelf next to his hat and gun belt, and now bent to pick up a small crate he assumed was for this purpose. “You’ll even have an extra to spare, then.” After piling the dishes in the box, Carter picked up the broken cup. “I’ll keep this one, to prove it’s damaged, but feel free to explain to the women what happened and how Molly is assuring you’ll receive the sixth one as soon as possible.” Before Mrs. Rudolf could answer—it was obvious she was thinking through everything he’d just said—he glanced around, continued, “Now, where did I see that bill?”

Her silence said she was still contemplating things, so he ran a hand through his hair as if growing frustrated. “I know I saw it. I don’t want to upset Molly more by—”

“I remember how much it was,” the woman said, digging in her little lace-covered wrist bag.

“Thank you,” he said, exaggerating his supposed relief. “You certainly are a reasonable woman, Mrs. Rudolf, and for that, take ten percent off what you owe.” Eyeing her pointedly, he added, “You can pay the balance when your sixth cup arrives.”

The bills she laid on the counter were old and wrinkled, but he still took a moment to glance at the serial numbers. That was, after all, why he was here. They weren’t close to the stolen ones, and after he’d set the money next to the big engraved box he assumed was the cash drawer, he picked up the crate of dishes. “I’ll carry these out to the porch for you. I’d hate to see you stumble on that step and break another cup. That would ruin your party.”

She let out a tiny giggle as he followed her to the door. “I dare say it might.” When he handed over the box after she’d stepped down, Mrs. Rudolf asked, “What was your name again? I can’t remember.”

“Carter Buchanan, ma’am. And it was a pleasure doing business with you.”

“You, too, Mr. Buchanan. Do tell Molly I said hello, and there’s no rush in getting that settled with the freight company.” Waddling along, she glanced over her shoulder. “I am a reasonable woman, and do understand how these things happen.”

Carter held his opinion on that, but spun back toward the doorway when someone asked, “Who are you?”

He barely noted the sister before glancing over her shoulder. Molly was the one he’d expected to see, but there wasn’t any sign of her. He’d imagined her charging through the doorway like a freight train the entire time he’d been dealing with Mrs. Rudolf and her silly broken cup.

“What, Carter Buchanan, are you doing in Huron?”

He shifted his stance at the skepticism in the girl’s voice. If Karleen was sixteen, he’d guess Molly, or Maureen, to be twenty or so. Young still, but more defined by life. Their names sounded a bit Irish to him, not that it made any difference. Neither of them looked Irish. Both of the Thorson sisters had blond hair tucked neatly into buns on the backs of their heads. Molly’s—Maureen’s—had hints of brown in it, making her pale blue eyes more prominent. Karleen had blue eyes too, they just weren’t as unique.

Carter shut his mind off then, or attempted to. Nothing good came when a man started thinking too much about a woman. He’d seen that before. If a fella wasn’t careful, next thing he knew he’d have a passel of kids as big as that woman’s on the train—like that poor sap that had ordered her as a bride. An event that horrendous would take a while before it quit churning about in the back of his head. How a man could want a woman so badly he’d order one was unbelievable. Even to him, and he’d seen a lot of unbelievable things in his life.

“I was in the storeroom,” Karleen said, her gaze going to Mrs. Rudolf waddling down the road. “You could have gotten hit with that broken cup.”

He’d agree to that, but said, “I’m working my way up to Montana.”

“Montana?”

“Yep, gonna start a ranch up in those parts.” He flipped roles again, pulling up his cowboy jargon and nodding to his horse still tethered to the post. “Sampson and I are looking for a bit of work in these parts, to earn enough money for the next leg of our trip. I was thinking of asking your sister if you folks needed a hired hand.”

The girl planted both hands on her hips, as if that made her appear older, and gave him a good solid once-over. “Have you ever worked in a store before?”

“Sure have. I’ve done most everything at one time or another.” He had even built coffins over in Minnesota while undercover one time, just to make sure they were burying the right man. This job looked to be about as pleasurable.

“Actually, Mr. Buchanan, we do need help around here, and considering the way you took care of both Mr. Ratcliff and Mrs. Rudolf, it would behoove me to hire you.”

Behoove. That was a good word. Couldn’t say it had ever come up in conversation before. He knew it though, from his dictionary. The well-worn book had been his constant companion for years—his only true education. A man learned a lot looking up words, thinking about how they related to people and places.

“The barn needs attention—is that something you could see to, as well?”

“Yes, miss, I could. But wouldn’t your sister have to be the one to hire me?” He wanted the job, all right, needed to examine every bill that came through, but being fired as soon as he was hired wouldn’t give him the chance and the older sister was surely the one in charge.

“We are equal owners in the store. I can hire as easily as she can.” Karleen Thorson stepped onto the porch then and lowered her voice, “Molly wasn’t always as ornery as she is right now. She’s only been that way for the past few months. I think it’s the dresses she keeps sewing for herself. They’re two sizes too big and as unflattering as Otis Zimney’s milk cow.”

Carter wouldn’t admit he’d noticed the drab dress. Nor would he admit he’d noticed Molly’s face. Other than those few freckles, her complexion was unmarred and the graceful arch of her cheeks left her looking about as delicate as Mrs. Rudolf’s china cups.

There he was, thinking too much again. He always thought about his cases, thoroughly, deeply, but usually not the people involved in them.

“If you tell her I compared her to a cow, I’ll fire you,” Karleen whispered.

Carter let out a chuckle, and found himself wishing the older sister was as pleasant to be around as the younger one. That single notion had him picturing the money, making it front and center in his mind. He needed more clues. That’s what the problem was. Didn’t have enough solid evidence to set in and ponder all the intricacies of the case. Once that happened he’d quit thinking so much about Molly Thorson.

“There’s a small cabin out back,” Karleen said. “It has a bed and stove. Help has lived in it a time or two, but for the past couple years Ivy’s just used it as a playhouse. You can stay there if you want. That’ll save you even more money for your ranch in Montana.”

“I’d be obliged,” he said. “You’re sure your sister won’t mind?” Carter had his reservations, but needed to get his foot in the door.

“Oh, she’ll mind. She minds everything lately.”

There was no doubt she’d mind. He didn’t need more evidence in that part.

“But,” the girl said a bit on the sly side, “if we team up, she won’t have a choice. We need help, Mr. Buchanan, have for some time, but Molly’s too stubborn to admit it.”

Carter’s insides churned. Undercover was one thing. Deceit another. He understood that and balanced it out as needed. There was no reason for this job to be different, but deep down, this time it struck a chord. He had to ignore it, that’s all there was to it. Completing his assignment would be impossible without working at the mercantile.

“Why don’t you get settled?” Karleen wiped her hands on her yellow skirt, nodding toward the road. “We have another customer coming, but Pastor Jenkins is always pleasant. He’s a bachelor, like yourself, and several women in town think he’s rather handsome, except Molly. She doesn’t like men with dark hair.” Smiling, the girl then said, “There’re empty stalls in the barn for your horse.”

Molly wanted to rush out the door, proclaim there weren’t any empty stalls and that Carter Buchanan could not work here, but Pastor Jenkins was almost on the porch, and she couldn’t endure his questioning looks. Or his persistence. Which was why she’d told Karleen she didn’t like men with dark hair—just to stop her sister’s questions. The pastor had suggested he’d like to call upon Molly, and she’d told him no, even before Robbie had returned to town. Before …

It happened again. The fluttering in her stomach. Strong enough to capture her full attention. Molly inched her way back into the living quarters while she waited this time. Wondering if she truly had felt something. She hadn’t been ill for several weeks, and was still shaky at how it had suddenly come on, which had left her with no choice but to flee. Holding it in hadn’t been an option. By the time she’d returned to the store, Carter Buchanan had been behind the counter, placating Mrs. Rudolf, even making the woman blush. That was as uncommon as Mr. Ratcliff’s silence.

Carter Buchanan was good at what he did. Telling lies, making people believe them. Like all men.

Karleen passed through the doorway just then. “Oh, there you are. Pastor Jenkins is here for his daily roll. I told him you were keeping one warm for him.”

Like a horse tied up to a post too long, Molly snapped against the confines, the invisible ones that kept her tied to the store, to her life. “I’m not keeping one warm for him, and you had no right to offer that man a job.”

Her sister didn’t so much as glance her way as she walked to the stove and took the pan of rolls out of the warming oven, but she did say, “It doesn’t hurt to be kind to people. You used to tell me that all the time.”

That was true. At one time Molly had felt that way, even lived that way, but not anymore. “We’re attempting to run a business, Karleen, not make friends.”

Cutting the rolls apart, Karleen sighed heavily. “That’s what I’m trying to do, Molly, run a business. Why aren’t you?”

“Why aren’t I?” she huffed in return. “That’s all I have been doing. Without much help, I might add.”

Karleen had the most expressive eyes, and right now they said Molly’s words had hurt. Painfully so.

Molly cursed her temper that simmered right below, boiling continuously. Karleen was young, had so much to learn, but did do her fair share. “Go give Pastor Jenkins his roll,” Molly said, but that truly was all the comfort she could offer her sister. “Then go tell that cowboy you changed your mind. That you can’t hire him.”

“But I can hire him, and I did.”

Her moment of mercy vanished. “No, you can’t.”

“Yes, I can.”

Holding her breath, for it was too hot to be released, Molly pointed out, “You are only sixteen, too young to know who to hire and who not to.” She wanted to add who to trust, but that held too much ridicule coming from her.

“You said when I graduated we’d become equal partners. That happened this spring. I work as hard as you do in this store. I did even while I was still in school.” Karleen could be as feisty as their mother when riled, and was so now. Without taking a breath, she continued, “I’m tired of being treated like a child. I deserve more respect than that. I’ve earned it.”

As much as it infuriated her, Molly had to admit a portion of that was true. They’d never have kept the doors open as long as they had if it wasn’t.

“Now,” Karleen said, putting the pan, minus one roll, back in the warming oven above the stove. “You know as well as I do we need the help around here. The barn is a disaster, the fence line is down again, the storeroom has a leaky roof and there’s that lovely hornets’ nest on the backside of the outhouse.” Spinning around, she finished her rant with, “If you want to go fix those things yourself, go fire Carter.”

All her sister said was true, but one thing snagged at Molly’s ire more than the others. “His name is Mr. Buchanan. You don’t know him well enough to call him by his first name.”

Karleen didn’t answer, simply stared at her with a somewhat amazed expression as she crossed the room, roll in hand.

“I will fire him,” Molly declared. It was beneath her to spat with her younger sister, but Karleen had challenged her, not so unlike when they were younger.

“Fine,” her sister replied. “Have fun with the hornets, too. Which shouldn’t be too hard. You’re about as pleasant to be around as they are.”

Molly was still conjuring up a response when Karleen paused in the archway leading to the hall. “Just remember, if it wasn’t for Carter—” her sister said the man’s name with great emphasis “—we’d have lost Mrs. Rudolf’s sale this morning. With the mood you’re in, you’d have smashed every cup. And how would that have affected our profits?”

Nose in the air, Karleen marched down the hall, and the way she greeted the pastor, with honey-laced cheerfulness, provoked every last nerve Molly had. She’d fire Carter Buchanan all right, and she’d paddle Karleen’s behind, just as their father used to do.

Some of her steam dissolved. Papa had never paddled any of his children, and Molly wouldn’t either. Not because she didn’t want to, but because deep down, she knew Karleen was right. Not in hiring Carter—Mr. Buchanan—he still had to go, but in everything else, her sister had hit the nail on the head. Rusty or greased. All those things did need to be seen to, and Karleen was an equal partner. As would Ivy be someday.

She might only be sixteen, soon to be seventeen, but Karleen had the head of a merchant. Papa always said that. He’d said Molly was the worker bee, his way of complimenting her, too. She had been a worker bee and didn’t mind it in the least. In those days, when her parents were alive, she’d completed any chore requested because afterward she’d been free to do as she’d pleased. Ride. All afternoon at times.

Karleen, on the other hand, never rode. She’d rather sit in the corner reading a book. That’s how she knew how to handle customers, from watching their father. Though back then, all Molly had noticed was how her sister batted her big blue eyes at people. That’s what her sister still did. Something Molly insisted had to stop. At sixteen, Karleen didn’t know the consequences of it.

There was a dangerous ledge between being a girl and becoming a woman, and Molly had to make sure Karleen didn’t fall off it. Not the way she had.

Right now, on the edge of that cliff was Carter Buchanan, and the man was going down.

Chapter Three

Carter got Sampson settled first, and the horse was grateful, nickering his thanks before trotting out the back door of the barn. It was sad, a barn of this size almost empty. Besides a couple of milk cows grazing, there was a donkey and a few horses near the far side of the fenced-in area. Carter waited, making sure Sampson would get along with the other animals. After some head tossing and grunting, all seemed fine, so he picked his belongings off the floor—that was in desperate need of some attention, as was the fence out back—and set out to find the cabin.

Exploring as he walked, he noted the broken door on the chicken coop and an almost empty woodshed. Fall would be here soon, then winter. That shed should be full. Seeing such things neglected irked him. When you grow up with nothing, you tend to notice how some folks don’t take care of what they have. Not everyone, but enough that he’d become conscious of appreciating what he had. Right now, it was mainly his bank account, because that’s what would get him to his final goal. Once there, he’d be set. Live out his life in a simple fashion that didn’t matter to anyone but him.

The cabin was set back a ways from the other buildings, a little sod shack, but it had a wooden door and real windows. Besides the bed and small stove, there was a child-size table, complete with little dishes and a couple of dolls sitting in pint-size chairs.

He left it be as he set his saddlebags and other items on the bed and then stretched his arms overhead. Sleeping in a real bed would be refreshing after sitting on the train all the way from Chicago. He could have purchased a sleeping berth, but a cowboy working his way to Montana wouldn’t have done that, so he hadn’t either.

“Don’t get too comfortable. You’re not staying.”

He didn’t have to turn around to know the older sister had found him. Snippy really did get on his nerves.

“Here’s your hat and your gun belt. Leave.”

He turned, took the items she held. After putting on the hat, he settled the belt around his hips. There’d probably be no use for it, but just the same, he secured the metal buckle and tied the strap to his thigh.

“Did you hear me?” she asked.

It took a lot to get a reaction out of him, but Molly Thorson made ire inch up his back like a slow and steady caterpillar climbing a branch. “The people on the train heard you,” he said. “The one that left an hour ago.”

She opened her mouth, but then as if she’d forgotten what she wanted to say, she snapped it shut. Her eyes, however, could have fired bullets faster than his pistol.

Finding the slightest bit of humor in how easy it was to get a reaction out of her, he said, “Your sister hired me.”

Her cheeks were bright red now, or maybe they already had been, and she planted both hands on her hips. Trying to appear as wide and formidable as a woman the size of Mrs. Rudolf, she informed him, “Karleen had no right to hire you without consulting me first.”

The sister had been right, Molly’s dress was too big, not even the long white apron hid that fact, and the dull drab color was unflattering. How she chose to dress, or look, made little difference in the scheme of things. Staying here did, and he wasn’t about to leave. “Then you probably need to go talk to her.”

“I have spoken with her.”

“And?”

Her face turned redder. Even her neck, where the dress was tightly buttoned, took on the hue.

Having Karleen on his side, though she was younger and he had to admit shouldn’t have the authority to hire anyone, looked as if it might be enough. “Since she was the one to hire me,” he said, “I’ll leave when she fires me.”

“You will leave now.”

She reminded him of a snake, all coiled up and hissing, and full of bad attitude. “You don’t have a very good disposition, do you, Miss Thorson?” Steam was practically coming out of her ears, and he couldn’t help but add to it. “Molly.”

Molly didn’t know if she’d ever been so enraged in her life. Every inch of her being was furious; even the hair on her head felt as though it could snap in two at any moment. She had enough to deal with, but having Karleen all of a sudden take an interest in a man—one as appalling as him—was the last straw. He’d break Karleen’s heart into so many pieces it would never be whole again.

“You know, if you were a bit more like your sister, more on the pleasant side, you might just have a few more customers,” Carter Buchanan said in that slow, drawling way.

“You stay away from my sister,” Molly seethed.

The somewhat startled expression on his face took her slightly aback. It was gone, the look of surprise, when she glanced up again, making her wonder if she’d imagined it.

“Your sister, Miss Thorson, is a girl. As are you. And I have no interest in girls. I am interested in mending your fence, cleaning your barn and filling your woodshed, along with a few other chores, including helping out with irate customers, but only because I want to earn enough money to make it to Montana before the snow flies.”

His little ploy may have worked on Mrs. Rudolf and Karleen, even Owen Ratcliff, but it wouldn’t work on her. She couldn’t be placated. There was too much ire inside her for that, even as she imagined all those chores being completed before the snow flies, as he’d put it. Something else would arrive along with the snow, and she’d been more focused on that lately than becoming prepared for winter. Unable to find fault in what he’d said—other than her being a girl—she went back to his earlier statement.

“I have plenty of customers, Mr. Buchanan.”

“You won’t if you keep up that attitude much longer,” he said. “Most people don’t like temper tantrums.”

Something did snap, and unable to think beyond the fury it sent rolling inside her, Molly screamed, “Get out!”

His expression never changed as he kept looking at her, calmly, thoughtfully.

A bit of embarrassment overcame her and oddly, slowly, some of her anger eased. Some. She was still fuming. “I know you heard me, Mr. Buchanan.” She pointed to the open doorway. “Leave.”

He plopped onto the edge of the bed, crossed his arms not so unlike a stubborn child. “Make me.”

“What?” She’d heard him, just couldn’t believe a grown man would act so.

“Make me.”

If he wasn’t twice her size she’d drag him out the door. Since that wouldn’t work, Molly searched the room for something to throw at him. There wasn’t much. Just Ivy’s toys.

“I suspect Ivy would be upset if you broke her dishes,” he drawled. “Mrs. Rudolf was certainly displeased by her broken teacup.”

“Which was none of your business.”

“I know. But you’d scattered for the high country.”

He’d have to bring that up, wouldn’t he? For a moment she’d imagined he was her biggest problem. Her only problem. Wishful thinking. A unique tenderness had welled up inside her, washing away a good portion of her anger. That happened frequently, as if the baby was saying she wasn’t alone in all this. At times, that made her teary-eyed, and now happened to be one of those times. She’d sneaked a peek at a medical book on the store shelf, read how pregnancy altered a woman’s emotions and found it overly tiresome. As was the fact the book had sold before she’d had a chance to read more. It didn’t help that as of yet she hadn’t found an excuse to order another one, either.

“I didn’t scatter for the high country,” she said. “If you haven’t noticed, there is no high country around here.”

“I noticed.”

She took another drawing breath, sensing the little life inside her was calm and well. “The broken cup just upset me,” she said, though there was no reason to explain her behavior to this man.

“You shouldn’t let that happen.”

She shouldn’t have let a lot of things happen. “We can’t always control everything,” she muttered.

“We can the important ones,” he said, “if we try hard enough.”

It was apparent he was attempting to manipulate her with that gentle tone as easily as he had Mr. Ratcliff and Mrs. Rudolf. It was useless. She wouldn’t ever be influenced by another man. Yet, she wasn’t nearly as riled as she had been. “Don’t unpack your bags, Mr. Buchanan. You are not staying.”

With that, Molly spun around and walked out the door. There, in the warm summer sun, she took several deep breaths, though she really didn’t need them. How did he do that? He’d not only calmed two of her most irritable customers, he’d calmed her, and her baby.

A noise behind her set her in action, marching forward. To where, she had no idea. Karleen was still assisting Pastor Jenkins. If anyone in town were to pick up on her sin before it was revealed, it would be Caleb Jenkins. He had a way of looking at her that left her feeling as if she’d committed murder. Perhaps he knew she’d considered it. She’d thought about shooting Robbie Fredrickson if she ever saw him again. She wouldn’t, of course—she hoped she never saw Robbie again. If he ever learned about the baby, Lord knows what would happen.

She had enough worries without dredging that one up, and she’d just have to wait until Pastor Jenkins left. Then she’d tell Karleen to get rid of Carter Buchanan, and this time she’d make her sister listen.

Right now, she’d find Ivy. She hadn’t spent enough time with her lately, and her littlest sister always raised her spirits. The girl had gathered her schoolwork and skedaddled upstairs earlier. When Molly had run through the kitchen, heading for the outhouse.

Guilt, frustration and all the other things that lived inside Molly lately had her throat burning. She just couldn’t do anything right. Little Ivy had only been a toddler when she’d been left at the mercantile. Terribly ill, it had taken the entire family, and Dr. Henderson, to keep the child’s heated skin cooled, and to dribble fluids into her tiny mouth around the clock for several days.

Ivy had survived, and had been a part of their family ever since. Almost her little sister and almost her daughter—at least since their parents had died—Ivy was as near and dear to her heart as Karleen. Molly often wondered—especially lately—about Ivy’s mother. Years ago she’d concluded the woman must have died, and believed it more strongly now. No woman would give up her child. A little life that had formed and grown inside her. It was too precious. Though she had yet to meet her child, she already cherished him or her. The little fluttering she’d experienced the past few days was fascinating and something she wished she could share with someone. Tell them how tender and miraculous it felt.

Molly entered the house and climbed the stairs. A single brave had come to the mercantile the spring after Ivy had joined their family, and though their father never voiced what had been said between him and the Indian, he had told the family that Ivy would continue to live with them, forever. Karleen—her mind always full of the stories she read—had several theories on what had transpired, but when asked, Father would simply say it didn’t matter how or why, Ivy was there, she just was. Molly agreed with that, still did. Other than the school issue, most of the town had accepted Ivy, too.

If only things were that simple now.

Molly found Ivy in her bedroom, sitting on the floor and practicing her letters on the slate balanced on her lap.

“I can help Karleen in the store if you need to work in your garden,” the child said, looking up with a touch of worry in her generous brown eyes.

Molly sat down on the floor and looped an arm around the tiny shoulders. “Maybe later,” she said. “Thank you for offering.”

Ivy nodded and then drew a perfect lowercase e. Molly couldn’t help but recall how Carter Buchanan had said Ivy was a child and deserved to learn. She agreed, and once again wished things were different. If her father had still been alive, Ivy would be in school. He would have seen to it. Molly had tried, but she just didn’t have the persuasive way her father had. She was more like her mother in that sense. Not necessarily by choice. She’d like to be more domineering, but that wasn’t how she was raised. It wasn’t until after her parents died that she’d had to learn to make decisions—was still learning in some instances—and how to live with them.

Molly picked up the book near Ivy’s knee. “Could you read to me for a few minutes? Karleen’s minding the store and I’d love to sit up here with you for a bit.”

When Ivy smiled as she did right then, it made the entire world brighter. Molly tried to swallow the lump in her throat—the one that told her life was far from awful—and then leaned over to plant a tiny kiss in the center of the part that separated Ivy’s long black hair into two braids.

“I believe you’re ready for a new reader,” Molly said a short time later as the child closed the book. “You’ve mastered this one without a single mistake. I believe Karleen ordered a few extras. They’re on a shelf downstairs.”

“Karleen says books are the most wonderful thing on earth,” Ivy said. “And that someday I can borrow hers.”

“I have no doubt you will soon be borrowing Karleen’s books,” Molly answered, withholding the rest of her opinion. She enjoyed reading, always had, and could think of one particular night she should have sat down with a book, but she’d been too shocked that night to see Robbie. “Have you finished your other lessons?” she asked, though her mind had slipped again, and she was now thinking of Carter. He’d said he wasn’t interested in Karleen, but Karleen might be interested in him, and men were fickle.

“Yes.”

“Well, then.” Molly stood and helped Ivy put the book and slate on the table in the corner. “Would you like to pick some beans?” She and Karleen could teach Ivy many things, but there was no one for the child to play with during the long hours the store was open, and Molly knew that was as important for a child as books. “Just enough for supper, then you can have a tea party with your dolls.”

Ivy agreed as they left the bedroom hand in hand. The soddy was Ivy’s playhouse, one more reason Carter Buchanan had to leave. There was no room for him here.

It appeared nothing was on Molly’s side all afternoon—not that she expected there to be. Life couldn’t change that quickly. Ivy picked a large bowl full of beans, and then played happily with her dolls in the soddy, but the opportunity to speak with Karleen about firing Carter never appeared.

From what she heard, Mrs. Rudolf had wasted no time sharing the story that the mercantile had a new employee. Even Mr. Wilcox from the railroad stopped in, requesting to see Molly. She left the back room and met the gray-haired man at the counter, fully prepared to hear that the rest of her order wouldn’t be in for weeks, and ready to tell him exactly what she thought about that. Instead, she was utterly shocked when he earnestly proceeded to apologize to her for Mrs. Rudolf’s broken cup. He not only insisted she order another complete set, which he personally promised would arrive undamaged, but he vowed to assure future shipments would arrive on time. The railroad, he said, did owe all customers the same excellent service it provides its own investments.

Molly was speechless, and had more things to ponder by the way Mr. Wilcox tipped his hat toward Carter as the railroad man left the store. Carter was behind it, that was for sure, and Karleen would never fire him now. That was irksome, but what bothered her more was how he was embedding himself so deeply into their business.

By the time they locked the front door that evening, she’d bet they’d sold more merchandise than any other day since her parents had died. It was true, Molly concluded upon totaling the receipts and the cash in the drawer. Their best day ever.

Questioning what that meant, a sound, or a sense, had Molly lifting her gaze from the store’s daily journal.

“You shouldn’t leave that money in the cash drawer overnight,” Carter said from where he leaned against the doorway that led into the house portion of the building.

“It’s called a cash drawer because that’s what it is,” she said, closing the book and placing it on the shelf beneath the counter.

“I know that. But so does everyone else.”

She didn’t like when he did that, talked slow and deliberate, making people think, therefore she didn’t bother looking his way again.

“Anyone could break in here, steal the money. They’d be long gone by the time you heard anything.”

That was highly unlikely, yet she asked, “And where do you suggest I put the money, if not in the cash drawer?”

“Hide it. Somewhere only you and Karleen know about. Every night and take it out every morning.”

The hair on her arms had started to quiver. Her father used to do that, but over time, she’d forgotten. What else didn’t she remember? The sound of their voices? No, she’d never forget how Papa’s laughter had echoed through the house like joyous thunder, especially when he was telling one of his famous jokes. Molly tried for a moment, but couldn’t seem to recall even one of his many stories. But she could remember how it felt to know he was in the house, how his presence chased away all her childhood fears. Fear was with her now constantly, and his laughter was gone.

Shaken, she gathered the bills out of the cash drawer and blew out the lamp on the counter. Walking past Carter, she hissed, “You’re still leaving.”

She could hear his laughter, and it rattled her very being.

Molly got up twice and moved the money to different locations—out from beneath her bed to behind the wood box in the kitchen, and then to the top drawer of her bureau—but still couldn’t sleep. Counting sheep didn’t help, neither did rehearsing how she’d insist that Karleen fire Carter. Therefore, when she crawled out of bed the next morning, she was groggy and irritated—more so than normal.

It was while Molly was pulling the third batch of cinnamon rolls from the oven that her mood hit rock bottom.

“Goodness,” her sister commented while entering the kitchen. “The store is busier than yesterday. We’re going to need another batch of rolls. People who hadn’t gotten a good look at Carter yesterday are trying to today.” Karleen started placing rolls on a plate. “Actually, some who had seen him yesterday are back for a second look.” Grinning, she added, “He is so very handsome, don’t you think?”

“That’s disgraceful, Karleen,” Molly snapped.

“What? Licking my fingers?” Karleen asked, doing just that.

“That, too,” Molly said, setting the heavy pan on top of the stove with a loud thump. “Carter Buchanan is not staying here.”

“Yes, he is,” Karleen insisted. “He’s not only good for business, he’s exactly the help we’ve needed. The cows were milked, the eggs gathered and the animals fed before I even got up. You, too. No boy from town would manage all that.”

Her sister was pointing out how last week Molly had suggested they hire a boy from town, which increased her irritation. Shoving the last pan of rolls into the oven—not caring if they ran out before the noon train or not—Molly slammed the door. “Those are simple, everyday chores that don’t hurt us a bit to accomplish. Having someone else do them is just plain lazy.”

“Well, maybe I want to be lazy for a while,” Karleen said. “Lord knows working in the store all day and baking dozens of rolls and breads isn’t enough for us to do.”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Molly scolded. She was a fine one to be preaching Bible lessons, but couldn’t stop the reprimand from coming out.

“I didn’t take his name in vain,” Karleen insisted. “I said he knows how hard we do work around here.” Sighing, she rested both hands on Molly’s shoulders. “You never used to be like this. Even just a few months ago you’d have been happy to have the extra help. Carter’s a wonderful salesman. He’s even sold two pairs of those shoes that peddler unloaded on us. That alone should have you dancing. What’s happened to you, Molly? Even Ivy is afraid you’re going to snap her head off like a bean stem for the tiniest mistake.”

Molly shrugged out from beneath her sister’s hold. She couldn’t handle anyone touching her, but more because the truth hurt. “Because I grew up. And it’s time you did, too.”

“I have grown up, Molly. I may not be as old as you, but I haven’t been a child for a long time. Not since the day Mother and Father died. It wasn’t my fault, Molly. It wasn’t my fault they died and we had to learn to run this place.”

“I never said it was,” she insisted.

“You act like it is.”

“I do not,” Molly retorted. “Now, hush up, the customers might hear you.” For good measure Molly waved a finger at her sister. “And don’t be snippy with me.”

“Snippy? Me?” Karleen all but snarled. “You’re the snippy one. Ask any of the customers, they’ll tell you. You act like everything is someone else’s fault, including why Robbie Fredrickson wouldn’t marry you.”

The last bit of starch left her knees—the small amount she’d held on to all this time—but other places, Molly was still seething. “I didn’t want to marry him.”

“Because no man wants to marry a woman with two younger sisters to take care of.”

Her hands squeezed the chair harder. “I didn’t say that,” Molly corrected.

“Well, Robbie did,” Karleen said. “I may only be sixteen, Molly, but I know some things, including that if a man really loves a woman, he doesn’t care how many sisters she has.”

Karleen was right, she herself had told Robbie those exact words, but her sister didn’t know everything. “You don’t know anything about love. You’re just a child.”

“I know more than you think.” Karleen leaned across the table. “I know Robbie only courted you to get this store for the railroad.”

“We didn’t court,” Molly seethed. “And I know exactly what Robbie wanted.” She did know, and she’d known it five months ago, but she’d wanted things to be different. Not just for her but for her sisters.

“Then get over it,” Karleen snapped.

Molly bit her tongue, refused to answer. She was over it all right, but Robbie was not the problem. The result of that night was. It had seemed no matter how hard she worked, there was no hope of things changing. She’d hated everything about her life that day and wanted out.

Karleen and Ivy had gone to Ralph and Emma Walters’s wedding party at the hotel. The whole town had been there, and she’d planned on going too, except the freight had arrived ten minutes before it was time to leave. It couldn’t be left out for anyone walking by to pilfer, so she’d stayed home, carrying box after box inside until it was good and dark. It had rained, too, exacerbating her sense of misery, and had made her recall how fast everything had changed. How that violent spring storm had hit two years prior, causing the James River to flood its banks, washing away buildings and stealing the lives of people so quickly the entire town was in shock for months afterward.

Safe, here at home, she and Karleen and Ivy hadn’t known what had happened to their parents until the preacher arrived and explained how the bridge had collapsed beneath their wagon.

“Molly?”

Things had changed that fast again five months ago. Molly pushed Karleen away and stumbled for the door, needing much more than fresh air.

“Molly, I’m sorry,” Karleen shouted, but Molly kept moving.

If she stopped, she might collapse.